


The Unbearable Friction of Being

by LadyAaronBurr



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Drama, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 16:56:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12303483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAaronBurr/pseuds/LadyAaronBurr
Summary: Holmes and Watson find themselves in a bit of a sticky wicket, in more ways than one.





	The Unbearable Friction of Being

The Unbearable Friction of Being

 

Holmes and Watson were in a tight corner. Well, not literally. If you wished to be technical, and it was in Doctor Watson's tightly wound nature to be not only technical but correct, they were standing together in the center of a circle of rabid samurai, who were all swinging their vorpal blades with fierce intent. Standing back to back, to be even more precise. Which caused Watson's derriere to brush against Holmes'. And vice versa.

For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. As the two cloth-concealed hindquarters made contact, certain elements of their front quarters were, shall we say, liberated, with a noticeable sproing. Luckily, not an audible one. But impossible for their owners not to notice.

They leapt away from one another, under pretext of fighting off the menacing horde. There were only six of them, after all. Mere child's play for this dynamic duo.

A well-aimed high kick, and one of Watson's opponents was done for, while his partner took out one of his own with a paralysing blow below the waist. Which brought the numbers down to four against two. At least in this first wave. Who knew what else the cunning linguist Professor Moriarty still retained up his sneaky sleeve?

Watson's methods tended to be more disciplined than those of his great friend; Holmes was rather more mercurial. But together, they were dynamite.

Holmes was distracted for just a mere wisp of a moment by a sound, perhaps a laugh—a woman's laugh? Forcing himself to focus once more, he saw that Watson was being forced back, bent over almost backward, by one of the menacing Asians. He needed bolstering, he did, Holmes decided, and without thought or care for his own safety, he took up a position immediately behind that of the good doctor, utilizing the old adage that four hands are better than two, and like a modified masculine Kali, they quickly disarmed two more samurai, disabling them, and putting them down for the count. But now the juxtaposition of their previous aroused proximity had changed, and it would have been impossible for Watson not to notice the very hard object digging into his backside. Or to appreciate it.

"Is that a pipe in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?" Watson quipped, just before they were forced to separate again, as the remaining samurai attacked.

Utilizing his immense cunning, and his ability to make do with what was at hand, Holmes grabbed a lengh of pipe which lay nearby—why it was there was immaterial, merely that it was there to serve his purpose, for which he was thankful. He brandished the pipe like a staff, shouting, " _Kutabare o Baka ze_!" before he rammed it home, even as Watson iced his opponent with a well-aimed nerve pinch, before turning to chastise his friend.

"Language, old chap," he reprimanded him, but before Holmes could respond with one of his particularly pithy comments, the floor began to vibrate unmercifully, and the circle they still stood within opened up, dropping them through it and down a level. Once our heroes had regained consciousness—a matter of mere moments, expedited by the introduction of a drug utilized for just that purpose being injected intravenously—they found themselves bound together in rather an interesting position. They were prone upon the ground, body to body, head to head, toe to toe. Surprisingly—or not so surprisingly, depending upon one's personal point of view—Watson was on top. His arms were bound securely about Holmes, and vice versa.

Holmes' first remark upon regaining his senses and taking in the situation was to comment in an aggrieved voice, "I would have imagined myself to be the _seme_ …”

"This is not the time to trot out your superiority complex," the aggravated doctor retorted. 

"Oh? I must disagree, old pud," Holmes argued, wriggling himself vigorously in an effort to gain the upper hand —or body, in this instance. Which only served to bring certain body parts into closer contact, through the medium of their trousers, and damned if the friction wasn't simply becoming unbearable.

"That isn't helping," Watson chided his friend, but whether he was talking about their bondage situation, or their fraught-with-sexual-innuendo situation was impossible to say. In fact, all that Holmes' movements were doing was to make that latter situation worse, as Watson felt his little fellow struggle to free himself, unmindful of whatever the rest of the good doctor's body had gotten itself into, determined to make intimate contact with the like-minded entity beneath it.

"What? Oh bother," Holmes muttered, managing to release his feet—never mind asking how he accomplished that feat, he wasn't one for sharing private information — he wound them about the doctor's legs. Which only exacerbated an already uncomfortable situation.

"Holmes, did you really mean to do that?"

"Of course I did," the unflappable detective replied, for it was not in his nature to admit to having made a mistake. Not readily, anyway.

"You cannot be on top," Watson maintained, his eyes taking on that gleam of superiority which Holmes despised. Damn the man, anyway, and damn whoever had aligned their body parts in just this way. "I've told you this before, and I'll tell you again. I am the _seme_ , and you are the _uke_. Live with it."

The stubborn Holmes persisted, raising his hips in order to gain some sort of leverage. But to still the good doctor's insolence before it got out of hand, thinking quickly he pressed his lips against those of Dr. Watson. After all, one cannot talk when one's mouth is otherwise engaged, surely. And thus proved to be the case, even if it had the added result of initiating a heated session of _le homme_ frottage. Being a most able and conscientious physician, Dr. Watson responded in the best possible manner. He slid his tongue into Holmes' mouth in order to gauge the other's temperature and verify that he was not running a fever of any sort. Upon contact with Holmes' own tongue, and after a subsequent playful duel with the same, he was able to ascertain that Holmes was not only not running a fever, but he was in excellent health. Although he did taste a tad of tobacco, which taste Watson did not care for. But under the circumstances, there was little he could do about it, as the spare mints which he carried on his person for just such occasions were unfortunately well out of reach.

Well, as they were obviously going nowhere soon, they might as well relax and enjoy the situation. Although it would have been better and more comfortably served in their own digs at 221B Baker Street. But such is fate sometimes—whimsical and uncaring of the comfort of those whom it drew into its lascivious snare. And so they continued to rut, hopelessly bound together for the moment, their tongues tangled in mutual pleasure, completely unaware of the sole witness to the spectacle of their impromptu lovemaking.

Irene Adler held her opera glasses to her eyes, watching in mute fascination the scene before her. She had come upon the scene, having followed the boys after they'd naughtily ditched her earlier, and managed to vanquish Professor M—at least for the moment. She'd had every intention of releasing them immediately. She honestly had. But before she'd had the opportunity, well, they had begun their little passion play, and she found she could not tear her eyes away from the sight, even as she wondered how far it would go should they manage to free themselves from their bonds. That thought alone was dizzying. She'd give them a little more time, she decided, and if they didn't seem to be able to progress in that direction, or if their current needs were temporarily met and their movements ceased, she swore she'd free them. Although she'd never admit to the voyeurism. Unless they asked.

She settled herself comfortably, watching them "struggle" against one another, taking a sip from a flask she kept just inside her bosom, wondering if she had the nerve to suggest a _ménage à trois_ , content for the moment to simply observe.


End file.
